


The Adventure of the Time Traveling Tomb

by adventureofthedancinggirl



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 1895, Case Fic, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Modern Era, Time Travel, Trials of Oscar Wilde, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2018-12-05 00:50:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11566878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adventureofthedancinggirl/pseuds/adventureofthedancinggirl
Summary: The year was 1895. Like the rest of London, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were following the news about the trials of Oscar Wilde.When they follow a young man with a personal interest in the trials into a mysterious tomb in Brompton Cemetery they find themselves transported 122 years into the future. A future where they might finally be free to explore the “love that dare not speak its name”.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the July [@hiatustory](https://hiatustory.tumblr.com/) challenge: Time Travel  
> Although this fic is set mainly in the modern day it is not related to the BBC Sherlock universe (though there may eventually be some minor references). This is my first forray into writing Victorian Holmes fic and I don't have a beta reader so apologies if there are any glaring period inaccuracies. There will be some references to some real life events but as this is a work of fiction/fanfiction I will inevitably be taking certain liberties with the facts and characters.

Unpublished manuscript of Dr. John H. Watson.

I have been cautioned against setting this story down on paper for a variety of reasons. The most obvious being that, if found, this entire manuscript will likely be dismissed as fraudulent - a cheap and badly planned hoax with little to no credibility. But the real fear is that this tale, fantastic though it seems, could be believed by the wrong people who would take the facts and use them for their own malicious ends.

Still, I feel compelled to set this story down, if only as an attempt to make sense of the confusing series of life-altering events that transpired. Certain precautions have been taken in the intervening years and Sherlock Holmes has assented to let me recount the case for my personal files, though only after I swore that it would never be published. On that account he should not have to worry, as my days of serializing our adventures in the Strand are long gone.

I confess that I am, myself, still in disbelief of all that has transpired though it has been several years (or depending on your perspective, several lifetimes) since the events recorded below took place. Time is a strange thing, as we discovered on this most peculiar case. Very strange indeed.

\-----

“‘There is no such thing as a moral or immoral book’.” said Sherlock Holmes as we sat together over breakfast one morning at Baker Street.

“Sorry?” I asked, emerging from the newspaper article that had caught my attention for the past quarter of an hour. It was May of 1895 and it seemed the entire population of London was swept up in the ongoing trials of Oscar Wilde.

Sherlock Holmes had his fingers pressed together, “‘Books are well written or badly written. That is all’.”

“And ‘Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt’,” I replied.

Holmes looked up at me, a questioning look in his eyes. “Feeling philosophical today, Watson?”

“I thought we were quoting Oscar Wilde. He’s all over the papers.”

I offered the article I’d been reading but Holmes waved it away.

“Can’t say the same of that young lad he’s accused of being with,” I continued, “Apparently the prosecution isn’t permitted to speak his name aloud in the courtroom due to his status.”

“His lover was Lord Alfred Douglas,” Holmes said absently, “It was his father, the Marquess of Queensberry, who accused Mr. Wilde and brought about this whole unpleasant affair. Yet young Bosie suffers no consequence while his lover loses his reputation and possibly his freedom.”

I shook my head in disgust and set the paper aside. “They say they have proof. Does it not implicate them both?”

Holmes rose and began pacing the room. “They’re using his novel against him. Since when is fiction used as courtroom evidence? It’s absolutely ridiculous.”

“Are you saying he’s innocent?” I asked.

“No, my dear Watson, he is indeed guilty of the claims made against him. What I meant was it’s utterly absurd that a man can be punished for love.”

“So you think the jury will find him guilty of indecency?”

Holmes shot me a look. “Call it what you will, his only crime is falling in love with the wrong person.”

I looked away. “But couldn’t he just be more...discreet? I mean, if it would save him from -”

“My dear Watson,” Holmes interjected, “not all men think the same way you do.”

I blushed and fell silent.

Holmes’s eyes slid closed and his hands came to rest beneath his chin as he slipped into the only place I could never follow - his brilliant and unpredictable mind.

I knew of course, the rumours that had followed the two of us when I’d first begun publishing our adventures in the Strand - two bachelors living alone, sharing nearly every aspect of their lives. It was only when I married and returned in earnest to my medical practice that the whispers stopped and the public began begging once more for stories of the great detective.

I thought of my marriage to Mary Morstan, who I saw only sporadically these days, and our home to which I often returned only to sleep. I rarely even ate there anymore, instead taking most of my meals at Baker Street with Holmes while my wife paid social calls to her dear friend.

After a time, Holmes emerged from his reverie.

“I can think of no way to help the unfortunate Mr. Wilde. But cheer up, dear boy. It seems we have a client. Let us pray he has something interesting for us.”

\-----

No sooner had these words left his mouth than the landlady appeared at the sitting room door with a card upon a tray. I glanced at it and did a double take. It wasn’t unusual for the aristocracy to seek assistance from my friend but I could not imagine what services the Marquess of Queensberry could require. The coincidence of his visit immediately following our discussion of his involvement in the Oscar Wilde trials was unsettling.

I handed the card to Holmes and an inscrutable look crossed his face.

“Well, well, well,” he murmured, “If it isn’t one of the players now.”

He turned the card over and glanced briefly at me before instructing the landlady to send him up.

A moment later the Marquess was in our sitting room. He was around 50 years of age with close-cropped hair and heavy-set eyebrows and was clearly a man who took pride in his social status. He seemed to have a look of perpetual disapproval on his face, though perhaps I imagined it, my conversation with Holmes fresh in my mind.

“Mr. Holmes?” He glanced between us before his gaze settled on my companion.

Holmes laced his fingers together but did not rise to greet our visitor.

“What can we do for you?”

Queensberry frowned at Holmes’s deliberate omission of his title and turned instead to me.

“And you must be Dr. Watson. I’ve read your stories in the Strand of course. I hadn’t realized you would be here.”

I tensed at his remark. Perhaps I was reading too much into his words but the way he stared at me seemed to imply disdain for something beyond having a third party present.

Holmes half-rose from his chair. “Anything you have to say to me can be said in front of Watson or not at all.”

He glared at the Marquess and I felt a smile creep across my face in spite of myself.

Queensberry turned back toward him with a shrug.

“Very well. I am here because something has been stolen from me. And if you’re as good as your friend’s stories claim, you should be able to make quick work of it.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow. “Why come to me and not the police?”

“Because, and I’m sure you’d agree, Mr. Holmes, the police are an inefficient lot who overlook the most obvious things.”

I found myself liking this man less by the second. He was clearly one of those fellows who would tell people what they wanted to hear in order to manipulate them and get what he wanted. Luckily Sherlock Holmes was not one to fall for such a cheap trick.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Holmes said, “There’s a youth named Hopkins at Scotland Yard who shows great promise. Also, Inspector Lestrade is a decent, if unimaginative, investigator. I’m sure either one of them would be able to locate some missing keys easily enough, if they have indeed been stolen.”

“But how did you know about the keys?” Queensberry cried.

“That is unimportant,” Holmes said. “Pray tell us why you are here, Lord Queensberry, and I will see if your case warrants our attention.”

Queensberry took a seat, removed his hat and turned it over in his hands as he spoke, “Truth be told it’s a more delicate case than I would entrust to the official police. It’s not really about the keys, though I will need them back. It’s more about the young man who took them.”

“What is your relation to the man?” Holmes asked

“None, though I know him to be a...friend of Mr. Wilde.”

“And you fear this fact will prevent the official police from aiding you for fear of upsetting the balance of the trials?”

“Yes, of course,” Queensberry nodded, “But I only wish to recover my property. There are some keys to items of a very sensitive nature and I do not wish to have them inspected. Nothing illegal, I assure you, but highly personal items, as I’m sure you’ll understand. I simply need you to find Robert Ross and retrieve the keys. You will of course, receive compensation for your services.”

Holmes’s eyes slid shut as he pressed his fingertips together. He remained silent for several minutes in which time Queensberry turned to me as if to make a wordless appeal. But even if I had felt inclined to sympathize with his plight I knew Holmes would do as he saw fit regardless of any prompting from me.

An uncomfortable silence fell across the room, in which I imagined the man in front of me facing a jury as the accused rather than accuser, for he was surely a more immoral person than the man whose reputation he had destroyed. To my great relief Holmes emerged from his thoughts before Queensberry attempted again to engage me in conversation.

“I will consider it,” Holmes said, “In the meantime, might I suggest you have another look around your residence. Perhaps check under the mattress. You’d be surprised how many lost objects are found in the place where we lay our heads at night.”

He rose and turned to his collection of commonplace books and pulled out the volume containing the letter ‘T’.

Queenberry stood, affronted and I rose from my seat as well, prepared to escort him out of the room by force if necessary. He glanced between Holmes and myself with a scowl then turned to me.

“He knows where to find me after he’s located our man. I’ll be waiting.”

And with that he turned and disappeared out the door.

“Can you believe that -”

Holmes held up a hand.

“Hush, Watson. There is much I need to do. I believe you mentioned a patient you had to see this afternoon. Perhaps now would be a good time to attend to him. If you will be good enough to meet me here for supper I would be most grateful for your company.

And with that he swept from the room.

\-----

I followed my friend’s advice and left to visit my patient. After seeing that he was doing well I strolled down the street and took a detour past the Old Bailey. Even though the trials were on hold for another fortnight reporters milled about asking passersby for opinions while newsboys wandered in and out of the crowd trying to sell the most recent papers.

When I returned to Baker Street at nightfall Holmes was nowhere to be found but a tray of food was laid upon the table along with a hastily scrawled note.

My Dear Watson,

I apologize for my absence but my current inquiries are taking a bit longer than anticipated. Kindly help yourself to this excellent meal. I expect we will have little time to dine once I return.

-Holmes

I sat and helped myself to the savory meal while wondering what Holmes had in store for us that evening. I was sure it had something to do with the case though I couldn’t imagine Holmes consenting to help the Marquess for any reason.

I had just sent word to my wife not to expect me home that night when Holmes returned, flushed with excitement, smudges of dirt on the knees of his trousers. He greeted me, ducked into the bedroom and emerged again moments later dressed in fresh clothes with his hair hastily smoothed into place.

“If you are not averse to a bit of adventure so late in the evening I should enjoy your company, Watson.”

I rose at once and followed him down the stairs into the mild spring air.

A hansom was waiting on the street for us and after a word with the driver Holmes climbed in after me. The streets were still crowded but our driver wove in and out with precision and we had soon left the busy streets behind.

“Holmes, where are we going?” I asked as the dense buildings gave way to a canopy of trees.

My companion tore his gaze from the foliage rushing past the window.

“To find Robert Ross.”

I looked back at him in surprise. “Surely you’re not going to help Queensberry, Holmes! That man-”

“I know what he is, Watson,” Holmes said, “and that is why I must find young Robbie. It is imperative that I understand the whole story behind these stolen keys before I decide whether the case can be safely abandoned or if it needs to be seen through to a satisfactory conclusion.”

He glanced back at the window then shouted to the cabbie. “Stop here. Yes, this will do!”

\-----

We had arrived at the entrance to Brompton Cemetery. As Holmes led us on a meandering path through the headstones he rested a hand upon my shoulder so that if any late night mourners saw us we would seem like a concerned man comforting his grieving companion instead of a detective and his partner.

As we walked Holmes explained in a whisper that his various contacts reported seeing a man matching Ross’s description coming and going in this area late at night for several weeks.

When we came to a copse of trees with a distant view of the main gate Holmes pulled me down and I settled in at his side. We sat there for what felt like hours and I kept glancing upward, tracking the moon’s progress across the sky.

Finally Holmes nudged me and I looked up to see a slender silhouette making its way swiftly across the grass. We followed at a distance, ducking in and out of the trees. Eventually we came to a clearing near the center of the cemetery in the middle of which stood an impressive twenty foot high mausoleum made of granite. Its peak resembled a pyramid which towered over the rest of the grave markers surrounding it and I was so intent in taking the sight in that I nearly missed the young man pull a set of keys from his pocket.

It took him several tries to find the right key and he glanced around furtively before pulling the door open with a loud creak that sounded as if it had not been opened in many years.

Once the door shut behind him Holmes and I rushed forward. Even in our hurry I marveled at the band of Egyptian hieroglyphs that formed a border around the heavy bronze door.

Inside with the door closed, the darkness was disorienting and I found myself wishing I had thought to bring a lantern. But Holmes, seeming to read my thoughts, wrapped a hand around my wrist and led me forward until my eyes adjusted to the faint moonlight seeping in through the openings near the ceiling. In the center of the room was a dias in which a trapdoor stood open revealing a set of stairs. Holmes’s eyes found mine. I nodded and we descended the stairs together.

After the first five stairs we were plunged into complete darkness and I held tight to the sleeve of my friend’s cloak so we would not get separated. In this manner we groped our way down the corridor, each of us keeping one hand upon the wall. I was just about to say I hoped there would not be any passageways to choose from when we reached the end of the tunnel.

“Holmes?” I whispered, “Where did Ross go?”

His defeated silence was worse than any answer. I felt his pulse pounding beneath my fingers and sensed his confusion and fear.

Stories about ghosts floated across my brain and I had half convinced myself that we had been led here by a restless spirit when I heard Holmes muttering to himself, mentally retracing our steps.

“The key, Watson. He needed a key to get in. Ghosts don’t exist and if they did they wouldn’t need keys to enter a house for the dead.” He seemed to be trying to convince himself as much as he was trying to reassure me.

“But where did he go?” I repeated. There had been no side tunnels, I was sure of it and yet here we were at a dead end, alone.

Holmes slumped against the wall with a sigh. I knew how much he hated not having an answer. If only I could see him I would know what he was thinking. I leaned back beside him and pounded my fist against the wall in frustration. The second I did I felt a rushing sensation and a sense of being spun around and flung forward. Holmes’s hand closed tightly around mine and we were pressed side by side as the world around us spun, flashes of light and colour swirled around us, growing slowly brighter.

\-----

“Who are you?” a voice broke through the odd sensations as the world righted itself. Holmes was still by my side, blinking in the light of a lantern held aloft by a trembling young man.

“You are Robbie Ross, I presume?” Holmes asked.

The man’s eyes widened in surprise and fear and he held the light in front of him like a weapon.

Holmes held out his hands in a comforting gesture.

“I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my partner, Doctor Watson. Don’t be alarmed, we simply wish to talk.”

“How did you get here?”

“I would assume, the same way you did,” Holmes replied mildly.

“He sent you, didn’t he? Queensberry?” Ross said, glancing around as though expecting the man to materialize beside us. “You’re known to be a fair man, Mr. Holmes. If you know what that man has done surely you will not take his side.”

“I assure you I do not,” Holmes said, “but there are questions that need to be answered - why, for instance did you feel the need to steal that set of keys currently residing in your left pocket and sneak into a tomb at midnight?”

At this Ross turned, ready to flee up back up the corridor but Holmes, anticipating his movement, lunged forward and pulled him to the ground. As I rushed forward to help the lantern shattered against the stone floor, plunging us into darkness. There was scuffle in which I heard a muffled yelp, a hiss of breath, then light footsteps racing away up the stone passageway.

“Holmes!” I shouted, for my companion had dropped to his knees beside me. He rose immediately though and I heard a faint clatter as he adjusted his coat.

“Come, Watson!” He raced down the passageway, surefooted as if he were running in broad daylight, pulling me along after him.

When we reached the top of the stairs the light seeping in through the crack in the door was a bit brighter than it had been before, though there was no way we had been inside long enough for the sun to be rising.

Holmes froze when he reached the doorway.

“What is it?” I whispered, reaching into my pocket for my revolver.

Holmes shook his head wordlessly and pushed the door open.

\-----

It was still night but the sky was ablaze with thousands of coloured lights. Beyond the boundaries of the cemetery impossibly tall buildings rose, cutting a path across the night sky and piercing it with specks of light.

Beside me Holmes was turning on the spot, his eyes wide with wonder at the towering city that had evolved around us.

He turned back to the mausoleum and eased the door shut. Then he bent forward to examine the grass before taking off running like a dog tracking a scent.

I raced after him through the unfamiliar landscape, toward the blazing lights before us.

\-----

As we left the cemetery and made our way along several streets, I realized the noises I was hearing were not those of the city I knew. There were still sounds of drunken laughter and the whisper of conversations. But instead of hearing the clip clop of hooves and the clatter of wheels we heard blaring horns and a cacophony of strange music.

“Hey! Watch where you’re walking!”

I jumped aside as a horseless carriage swerved around us and raced off at impossible speeds.

Another horn blared and a second carriage zipped past. Its occupant shouted out the window, “Can’t you see the bloody signs?”

I glanced around at the myriad of lighted symbols. The one closest seemed to be a bright red hand. As I stared, it changed to a white silhouette of a man. Trios of circular lights alternated between green, yellow and red. Other illuminated signs flashed words and phrases in various colours.

“Holmes!” I reached for my companion, pulling him out of the way as the lights continued their dance and a pack of carriages surged forward. “Where on earth are we?”

He glanced down the street teeming with vehicles then pointed toward a familiar clocktower in the distance.

“It appears, my dear Watson that the question is not ‘where’ but ‘when’.”

\-----

Holmes strode down the street, eyes darting back and forth taking in the new sights, already cross-referencing them with the London he knew.

“It’s extraordinary!” he exclaimed as we passed a young man who was talking into what we had concluded was a sort of portable telephone, “We must have jumped forward at least a century!”

“But Holmes, what you’re saying is impossible!”

He shook his head and pulled me into a deserted side alley.

“Have you not heard the rumors of the Courtoy Tomb?”

I vaguely recalled the sensational stories that circulated near All-Hallows Eve about graveyard mysteries and morbid curios.

“The time traveling tomb?” I laughed, “That’s a hoax, a fairy tale.”

“How many times must I tell you, once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true.”

I pulled my gaze away from the colourful scene in front of me.

“Yes, but _time travel_ , Holmes?”

“There is simply no other logical explanation,” he said, “We have already determined that we are not asleep. Nor, judging by that woman’s attire, is the entire world participating in an elaborate charade put on solely for our benefit.”

I glanced at the lady in question who was wearing a shirt emblazoned with a compass rose and tight trousers that hugged her hips.

Holmes continued, “As you are clearly experiencing the same sense of disorientation as myself we can safely rule out a drug-induced fantasy. Therefore -”

“But,” I interrupted, “what if all this is _my_ hallucination? I distinctly remember things going shaky in that tomb. Perhaps something happened and I’m lying concussed in the dark with the predictions of the future you’re so fond of expounding coming to life in my head.”

“My dear fellow, have I ever talked of women with rainbow coloured hair?” Holmes asked as one walked past our hiding place.

“Not to my knowledge, but it’s something I would be unsurprised to hear you say.”

“Hmm…” Holmes stared over my shoulder watching the crowd. Women in short skirts and high heels and men in cut-off trousers and sandals passed in pairs or small groups.

“I suppose,” he said after several minutes, “I could try doing something that even the me in your mind would never do. Would that convince you?”

After living and working with Holmes for years I felt nothing he could do would surprise me anymore but I replied, “And what, pray tell would that be?”

Holmes fell silent, fingers steepled beneath his chin, hesitating for the briefest of moments. Then he placed both hands on my face and brought his lips to mine.

Before my brain had quite processed what was happening he pulled back and gave me a searching look, possibly trying to deduce what I was thinking.

“There you have it, Watson,” he said with an attempt at his logical tone, though I thought (or perhaps hoped) that I heard a slight quaver in his voice and saw a faint blush on his cheeks as he turned away.

“It appears this is not a dream or a hallucination, but a most peculiar occurrence.”

Then Sherlock Holmes stepped out of the shadows and strode down the street dodging around strange mechanical contraptions and blinking signs.

As I followed dazedly in his wake I brought my fingers to my mouth, trying to preserve the feeling of Holmes’s lips - surprisingly soft, with a lingering taste of tobacco. His actions, however, had not at all convinced me of the reality of our current situation, for I had indeed pictured such a thing before, though never in such vivid detail. But if this was indeed a dream, I was quite sure that I did not want to wake up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, the time traveling tomb is a real thing! Just search "Brompton cemetery time machine" and you'll find a bunch of articles on it. Of course whether or not it _actually_ travels through time has yet to be confirmed but perhaps I'll find out when I'm in London for a visit next month ;)
> 
> I originally wanted to post the whole thing in one go but it got to be a bit to much for my schedule and I wanted to post at least this part for the monthly prompt. I’ve got the story more or less outlined but real life is going to be a bit hectic for the next month so it may take me a little while before the next chapter. Thanks for reading and have a lovely weekend!


	2. Chapter 2

After wandering the streets for several hours without any sign of Robbie Ross, Holmes and I settled in to rest under one of the many bridges spanning the Thames. The number of unfamiliar structures alone made me wonder exactly how many years had passed, if indeed we had somehow traveled into the future. As fantastic as it seemed, I found myself accepting Holmes’s claim as fact while the sounds of the city rumbling around us lulled me to sleep.

When I woke some time later, I was surprisingly warm considering the gray drizzle falling in ripples on the river’s surface. Holmes, who had likely remained awake pondering our situation, had draped his cloak over my shoulders while I slept and wandered off. A moment of panic passed through me at his absence, but my fears were allayed when I scrambled up the embankment and found him on a bench, chatting with a homeless girl who looked to be in her late 20s.

“-missed so much during our travels, I hardly know what day it is,” Holmes remarked cheerfully to her as I approached.

“Well, it’s all politics and disasters lately, but have a look for yourself.”

She handed him a paper that looked to be a few days old.

Holmes took it and scanned the front page. His only outward reaction was a slight widening of his eyes as they alighted on the date but even at a distance I caught the slight tension in his shoulders that indicated a mixture of surprise and excitement.

“I know, right?” the girl said, misreading his reaction, “all these probabilities and statistics. I don’t know why they’re calling for an early election. Does it make any sense to you?”

“Can’t say that it does,” Holmes murmured, glancing over the rest of the cover story.

“Ah, Watson,” he said as I joined them, “You’re just in time. This young woman was just getting me caught up on the news.”

The girl rose from the bench and Holmes reached into his pocket, but seemed to change his mind and instead extended his hand to thank her for the valuable information.

I reached into my own coat, certain I had some coins to spare - I knew Holmes was often in the habit of giving his sources a small token of appreciation especially if, like this girl, they were less fortunate than most. But Holmes slid his fingers around my wrist to stop me and simply bade the girl good day.

The girl glanced from Holmes to myself, and gave us a curious smile before hoisting her bag onto her shoulders and continuing along the path.

Only then did I realized that Holmes had not yet released my wrist and I felt my skin tingle beneath his fingertips. I was sure my friend could feel my pulse racing and a blush rose to my cheeks as I remembered what had transpired between us the night before.

I shook myself loose from his grip and pulled out the coin purse I had been reaching for.

“I - I’m sure we could have spared a few shillings for her,” I stammered, opening and closing the pouch to give myself something to focus on.

Holmes shook his head and took the pouch from my hands, exchanging it for the newspaper the girl had left behind.

I glanced over the headline and a photo of a woman with short, silvery-blonde hair giving some sort of speech, then my eyes fell on the date:

May xx 2017.

I felt my heart stop, then begin beating again at double time.

“But this is -”

“Now do you see, Watson?”

“Are you really saying we’ve traveled -”

Holmes took a step closer to me, closing off our conversation from the man in form-fitting clothing who had stopped a few yards away to tie his shoe.

“122 years into the future, yes.” Holmes said in a low voice, “And I’m not sure it’s wise to advertise that fact until we can learn more about our situation.”

I sank onto the bench and buried my face in my hands.

“So, now we’re stuck here with no leads, no usable money and no idea how to get home?” I asked, “What on earth are we supposed to do now?”

When my companion gave no reply I raised my head, only to see him staring off into the distance.

“Holmes?”

He remained silent, reading the street signs and watching the coloured lights direct the carriages. Then without warning he strode away toward the crowd of people at the corner waiting for their turn to cross.

I scrambled to my feet and hurried after him. Years of following Sherlock Holmes on cases had made his habit of running off without explanation familiar, but no less annoying. I had just thought that the last thing I wanted was for us to be separated in this unfamiliar place when a long, two-story carriage came to a halt in front of me, blocking my path. A crowd of people rushed out and I earned myself several glares and shouts as I pushed through them to chase after my companion.

As I darted across the road, through traffic I caught sight of his familiar cloak, which stood out against the fitted suits and casual clothing of the people surrounding him.

“Holmes!”

He stopped until I caught up with him, then set off again at a more reasonable pace.

Around us, men and women rushed along, staring at their mobile phones, some with wires that ran between the device and their ears.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

Holmes turned down a street that looked vaguely familiar and smiled.

“To do some research.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, guys! Sorry for the long delay with this. Thanks so much for all your comments on the first chapter - they truly make my day and really motivate me to keep going with this.  
> Life has been crazy (mostly in a good way) since I last updated. Please excuse any inaccuracies - this hasn't been beta'd or brit-picked and my knowledge of London comes from books, tv shows, and the 5 days I spent there at the end of summer.
> 
> Chapter 3 will be up within the next couple of weeks. Have a lovely day!

**Author's Note:**

> I’m on tumblr at [@adventureofthedancinggirl.](https://adventureofthedancinggirl.tumblr.com/) Come say hello!


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